


First & Fiercest

by nectar_ine



Category: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (Video Game)
Genre: A Plethora of Dreams, Manipulation, Tags added as chapters are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nectar_ine/pseuds/nectar_ine
Summary: A divine quest quickly turns into a messy tangle of curses, politics, and debates over the true worth of freedom.[ A multichapter longfic that will cover the span of the game's plot, with healthy doses of original scenes, romance with a certain cleric, and far too many religious debates. Some might call this a fix-it fic, but I prefer to think of this as my own rendition of the amazing story and characters within Kingmaker. ]





	1. A Call to Motion

** CHAPTER ONE **

         _Desna, Starsong, mark my paths_. _Lady of Luck, share a bit of your blessing with me as I begin my travels in your name, give me the strength to spread liberation to these false-claimed Stolen Lands_.

         The prayer, a familiar chant within her mind by now, was repeated in full force, reverberating in her ears as if she had spoken aloud. Avara Minlo, newly appointed head of one of the two groups endeavoring to dismantle the bandit pseudo-government within the Stolen Lands, risked a glance around to the companions at her side. They too were packing up, making last minute adjustments to the distribution of supplies, as the Aldori had seen it fit to grant them enough rations to make to the Trading Post.

         None reacted to the force of the words in her head; they were, after all, merely particularly strong thoughts. Reassured, the Inquisitor continued. _If Tartuccio be as single-faced as he claims to be, may you spread your blessing to him, Resplendence. And . . . if he be as two-faced as I fear, guide me swiftly to him before he could destroy the work you have commanded I do here._

Avara chewed anxiously at the interior of her cheek, pausing only to smile warmly at the halfling bard beside her as she swung her pack onto her back. If any of her new companions had proven trustworthy, it had been Linzi. Without her, she might have continued slumbering until some foul assassin slit her throat while she tarried in her Lady’s domain.

         The half-elf adjusted her broad rimmed hat, allowing the underside to brush up against her pointed ears. “Are you sure you are fine with carrying all four rations?” She questioned, directing the inquiry to the barbarian pacing impatiently by the doorway.

         “Hah!” Amiri barked, “Watch me.” She smiled rakishly, her confidence evident in her every certain motion, but her words betrayed a thinly veiled desire to _prove_ herself. She set off through the doorway, smacking the lintel with a hand that proved to still be soot covered, as it left behind a mark along the wood.

         Still, that was none of Avara’s concern, now, not when the four of them – for who could forget the dwarf who had a mumbling stream of a mouth – were leaving this place, setting out on an adventure, one that was certain to prove interesting.

         The Inquisitor followed in Amiri’s wake, sweeping through the mansion and to the main doors: towering things that stretched far above. When she had arrived the day before, it had taken her breath away, but after seeing a giant walk through these same doors and bowl over allies and enemies alike, the craftsmanship no longer seemed quite as impressive.

         Avara halted in the doorway, twisting to the side to allow her shorter legged allies to exit ahead of her and gain a head start on the downward slope of the path beyond.

She paused a moment longer, breathing out a traditional prayer of a traveler as the tip of her starknife sketched out a sigil in the dirt through the doorway. A simple design, a butterfly bracketed by halves of a star*.

         The point of her weapon tapped the center of the symbol, coinciding with the termination of her prayer. Avara’s green eyes latched on the distant horizon, present home of the dawn’s piercing light, as she took a step forward. This brushed away the transient sigil beneath her heel as she began her descent to her companions.       

         Thin sparks, barely visible in the early day’s flow, kicked up with her first few steps, marking a journey divinely blessed.

\---

* Knowledge Religion [Succeeded] : this is a ritual conducted by the more devout followers of the Goddess of Exploration; visualizing their desires, channeling those into the sigil as it is created, and then destroying the symbol is thought to create a beacon of luck for the traveler that lasts throughout their journey.

\---

         The first leg of their travels passed without issue; only a few overconfident thylacines provided trouble. They then were generous enough to provide dinner as well.

         The group’s current host, one Oleg Leveton and his lovely wife, were being assailed upon their arrival, but a few words and a round of strategic preparations had rebuffed the second wave of ‘tax collectors’ with ease.

         And so Avara found herself preparing for sleep in a proper bed – a rarity in her lifestyle. She vocalized as much to her current company, though Amiri’s distant howls as she practiced with some poor straw man were ever-present.

         Linzi laughed, a measure of bird’s song. “I can’t relate, too many nights under the sky has me wishing for roofs again. But – don’t worry –“ She interjected, diving her hands into her bag in search of some buried possession. “ – I won’t complain on our travels; camping’s part of the adventure! … though not one I’ll linger too much on. Too boring.” She spluttered, partially in an expression of her emotions, partially for the practical purpose of blowing an untamed strand of hair away from her face. The bard gave a cry of success as she withdrew the object of her search. The joyous noise died before its true end, however, as the quill she held proved to be bent. “Awwwww.” She pouted.

         “Here-“ Avara said, reaching a hand up to her hat, plucking an eagle’s feather from the ribbon wrapped around it. “- I have one you can use.”

         “Oh!” The damaged quill was quickly abandoned, dropped without thought back into Linzi’s bag. “Wait,” She began, drawing the new quill to her chest, as if the following question might prompt Avara to take it back. “Why do you have this?”

         The half elf laughed, a soft, self-aware thing, more a reaction to her own nature than to the situation. “It allows others make assumptions about me. People are more friendly to someone they think is a bard than they would be to an Inquisitor.”

         “But don’t you worship Desna?? What’s so intimidating about that?” Linzi’s fingers twitched along her hold of the quill, as if she wished to be using it.

         “Oh no, little about Desna herself is cause for alarm.” Avara quickly verified. “But anyone with the title of Inquisitor, regardless of deity, is a person of … let us say … concerning fanaticism for most laypeople. It is something I’m used to.” She shrugged, using the gesture as the beginnings of the removal of her overcoat. “Inquisitors, after all, are the hands of their god in mortal lands. Clerics may spread their teachings; paladins live by their ideals to the strictest of degrees; but inquisitors-“ She lifted her hat from her head, laying both it and her coat along the foot of her claimed bed. “- Inquisitors root out enemies of the faith, and are not nearly as restricted in their methods, ideals, or practices as a paladin may be. I, based on tales heard of other inquisitors, have been feared as a divine assassin more than once.” Avara sat on her bed, delighting in the softness of the mattress – just because it was not her norm did not mean she was not appreciative – and removed her shoes.

         “Have you?” Linzi inquired, emboldened by her inquisitive nature, as well as the goodness she felt, perhaps naively, this woman possessed.

         “Have I?” Avara repeated lightly, seeking clarification.

         “Been an assassin.”

         The Inquisitor tipped her head back, laughing near noiselessly. “No, dear Linzi, I have never been an assassin. Though-“ She tilted a hand consideringly, a gesture to say ‘on the other hand’, “- One could argue that our mission versus the Stag Lord qualifies as an assassination. A person in position of questionable power, destined to die? Yes, perhaps, an assassination.”

         “Divinely so?”

         Avara didn’t verbally respond, instead providing a vague answer in the form of a sly wink to the bard, immediately followed by a twist of her form to pull the covers of the bed down. “I will be resting now,” She said, bluntly. “We will have to have an early start. Assassinations await, after all.”

         Linzi lingered for a moment, not content with the sparse amount of information given to her, but she soon nodded. “I’ll sleep soon, I just want to get everything down!” She wiggled the quill in Avara’s direction. “Thanks again!”

         “Anytime.” The half elf murmured, already feeling the press of sleep upon as her head settled against the pillow. “Rest well.”

\---

Knowledge World [ Succeeded ]: Goose feathers are most commonly used as quills, though eagles, hawks, and other equally large birds may provide more rare varieties.

\---

         Avara came back to herself in a frightening manner – she was blinded, suffocating. Her hands rose to claw at her throat, at the thickness that had formed there, as if the air itself had followed a whim and become solid. In her panic, it took her a few racing heartbeats to realize that she was not blind, or, that if she was, blindness was not as she expected. Instead of darkness, all she could see was cloudy white.

Her legs crumpled beneath her as air continued to, rudely, not acquaint itself with her lungs.

         Her sight remained covered with dingy white, even when her gasping reached the point where she was certain that black should be edging into her vision. _Goddess_. She internally cursed, unable to form a more vehement remark.

         She slumped further, her hat colliding with the ground, cushioning her head from further damage. Her hands fell away from her throat, continuing to twitch with the scraps of energy she threw into attempting to move them.

         “Oh.” A soft voice mused, a touch of surprise present. “You can feel it too.” There was a gentle sensation of touch, creeping up her arms, along her shoulders, until two thin-fingered hands cusped her throat. If it were not for the current situation, Avara would be fear the possibility of strangulation.

         But the hands did not press further, cupping a few inches below her chin. Instead, the palms began to cool, a fall day’s breeze in temperature and scent. Slowly, the solidity in her throat began to crumble – still disturbingly heavy, but with enough cracks to allow for breath to breach and enter her lungs.

         Avara sucked in air, her thoughts gaining cohesion. After a few beats - during which the hands withdrew - she forced herself to rest up on her elbows, providing her a view of her savior.

         The sight punched a hard-earned breath from her, one of shock, as the other was some sort of fey, perhaps a dryad, and the appearance of such an otherworldly being was not a commonality in Avara’s life.

That was one factor. The other was, admittedly, that the fey was beautiful, soft curves and graced with the fullness of nature. She knelt beside the half elf, the contrasting lights of gentle concern and sharp attentiveness mingling in her eyes.

         “You know then, the suffocation that my flowers, my trees, my lands are undergoing.” The mournful words were strung along an unheard melody, bringing sorrow to Avara’s heart even as her head struggled to comprehend the situation.

         “I’m … sorry.” Were the words that came to her lips, as much a surprise to her as to the one that heard them. “I’m-“ Her head swung around as energy returned to her incrementally, fueling her survival instincts. “Where am I?”

         “You have not left.”

         Avara hummed a vague response, getting to her feet to verify this assertion for herself. The cloudy white fog had retreated, now only visible through the panes of glass on an adjacent wall. She drew closer, lifting a hand to press her fingertips against the glass.

         The window became insubstantial under her touch, causing her hand to tip forward and into the fog. Minute pinpricks engulfed her exposed limb, stinging it with needles comprised of old.

         She drew her hand back, looking at it with a curious gaze as her mind raced. “I’m dreaming.” The Inquisitor concluded, pulling herself straighter, reassured by the thought.

         As the remnants of her exhaustion faded with unnatural swiftness, Avara quickly cataloged the setting her dream had taken – dreams were not her realm; that honor belonged to her goddess, but she was an oft-welcomed guest, which afforded her some measure of experience, some semblance of a home advantage.

         This particular dream had taken on the set dressing of Oleg’s trading post, specifically the room she and her companions were resting in - and her allies, were, in fact, present.

Though as Avara narrowed her eyes to study them, none had the reassuring rise-and-fall of their chests to indicate their breathing. They were as much a part of the background as the chests and beds that littered the room. Mere props, not the people themselves – she hoped. The other possibility was far less pleasant a consideration.

Her hand fell to her side, brushing against the holster where her starknife typically resided. Her fingers met only a well-worn leather loop; she was without weapons.

         Avara turned fully to face the fey, who had not risen from her kneeling position, too exhausted to do even that much – the thought had occurred to her that the act of saving her life might have been the cause of the dryad’s fatigue. If so, the least she could do in return was offer the fey her attention.

         “You can hear me – see me.” The fey said in delighted awe at this revelation. A delicate hand, topped with fingernails that resembled groomed thorns more than keratin, reached out to the Inquisitor falling short as the dryad lost the necessary strength. The dryad, it seemed, had grown too desperate, or perhaps simply too weak to accommodate Avara’s delays any longer. “Please… help me.”

         Avara took the stride necessary to be beside the dryad, then squatted down and took the fallen hand into the embrace of her own. “Who are you? What’s wrong?” She asked, urgency speeding her words in direct proportion to the lethargy that slowed the fey’s.

         “I… am the guardian of this land. A failed guardian… **smothered** by this fog. It – it drains all life, tears it out at the _root_ , exposed, fading… fading so quickly. Call me the Guardian of the Bloom, if you wish, refer to me by my calling, even if….” She choked back a sob, her wide eyes filling with tears. The feeling of cool morning dew gathered where their hands met, bringing with it a gentle breeze, twisting around the pair. “… if I have not fulfilled it. - Please ** _!_** ” She said with renewed vigor, drawing her hand away from Avara’s grasp. Instead, she settled it along the half elf’s cheek, her thorned fingers give a slight prod that pushed the hat from the Inquisitor’s head, sending it dangling along a cord around her throat. The fey’s touch remained gentle, fluttering with the effort of this gesture. “We have a common enemy. Perhaps you will help me, knowing this.”

         Avara took the Guardian’s wrist in one hand, the other stretching forward to support her shoulder, as the dryad seemed on the verge of toppling. “What do you need?” She asked, her voice made lower by the strain her throat had undergone.

         “The Stag Lord.” The fey gasped out. “That is… the name you know him by, yes? His presence brings such _suffering_ – he _exudes_ it. To those of this land, people and flora alike. Even now, his most recent strike sweeps across my forests, my glens, blocking out the very light of the **_sun_** -.” She paused, her head lowering as she laboriously drew in breath after breath. “Though-“ The fey continued once she could begin to devote lungfuls to speech instead of simply her continued existence, “-this is not _his_ doing. Not directly. - - I believe this is the work of a powerful druid, one who has betrayed the very tenents that grant him this – this _cruel_ power.”

         The thorns resting along Avara’s cheek began to fade, unspooling out of existence. “ _Please_.” The fey begged as the curtain began to be drawn on this performance of a dream. “Find the source of this fog, disperse it, before I too, fade away like the morning dew when faced with the beginning rays of the dawn. There is an old house, a hut – I, I do not know where, this fog _enshrouds_ all, hiding away this place and others – the Stag Lord’s fortress -. I cannot find it, but **you** can, please. There is an encampment of bandits, nearby, I can feel their heavy footfalls on my plants; they will know of the location. Roust them out, **_make_** them tell you where it is. Listen carefully, to the echoes of nature - the trees and flowers record more than mortals have _ever_ understood - listen to them, learn of this druid, of this fog. Trace it back to the source, **_free_** me, free this land from this – this yoke of tyranny.”

The fey was barely more than mist given a vague outline by now; the only sensation Avara could feel from her was dew droplets on her cheek, where the Guardian’s hand had rested. But still, the Inquisitor nodded, swallowing thickly as resolve began to form within her: the harp strings of her divine calling responding to the plucking of the dryad’s words. Could she truly refer to herself as an Inquisitor of the Liberator if she turned down a direct plea such as this? “ - Yes. Of course, of course I will help. Hold on, do not fade – I will free you as quickly as I am able.”

A disembodied gasp of relief was the only response, as the mist lost all cohesion and was unceremoniously swept away by the faint drafts of this place.

Avara knelt for another heartbeat, hands falling into her lap, studied distantly as she processed what had occurred. Her lips parted, the beginnings of a prayer forming within her mouth, when her eyes opened – a strange feeling when she felt they already had been, within the confines of the dream.

Sunlight streamed across the ceiling of the room, highlighting the grain of the wood above her. Once more, she lay in her bed, blankets tucked up under her arms, strands of loose hair sticking to her face. She felt so disappointingly _mortal_ after the etherealness of her lady’s domain.

Cautiously, Avara turned her head to the left, facing the light of the day. The light was able to pierce down from the heavens, angling into the room – an improvement from her dream – but the congealing fog pressed disturbingly close.

The Inquisitor sighed heavily. _So be it_. Guidance was always appreciated, even if it came from a hauntingly fragile fey.

She sat up, swept her legs off of the bed, and began to prepare for what was certain to be a trying day.

\---

Lore Religion [Succeeded]: ‘Nymph’ is a term that refers to the umbrella grouping of nature spirits, most often taking the form of beautiful women. Nymphs may be associated with trees for example, being referred to specifically as dryads. Nereids, in turn, are associated with seas. There is some common confusion regarding these terms, resulting in referring to a fey with a specific term, such as dryad, when one truly means the overarching term of ‘nymph’.

\---

A short time later, Avara headed down the steps, hands still busy with the task of wrangling her hair into some semblance of order in the form of braids. Halfway down the staircase, she called, “Linzi?”

The bard, stationed at her typical position at the table nearest the bottom of the stairs, hurried over to peak her head into the stairwell. “Avara! There’s someone here to meet you.” She scampered backwards as the Inquisitor approached the bottom, allowing the half elf room to enter into the inn’s main room, her sharp gaze already sweeping over the current occupants.

Svetlana was once more behind the bar, idly chatting with a stranger that already had a few empty glasses before them, despite the sun having barely breached the horizon. Avara turned slightly to Linzi, tilting her head towards the stranger quizzically.

The halfling shook her head rapidly and then clambered back up into her normal seat, where a half eaten breakfast and piles of papers already dominated the surface of the table before her.

\- - Save for one small corner, diagonal from Linzi’s perch. There sat another plate, this one picked clean, used silverware already placed on it. Avara’s eyes trailed upwards, taking in the dish’s owner. There sat a half orc, clad in well-tended full plate, weapon tucked away, as if that would make up for the absurdity of wearing heavy armor within the relative safety of an inn. – Though, to be entirely fair, Avara mused, this inn _had_ been under attack twice in the past day and was now surrounded by an otherworldly fog.

The half orc’s long hair was pulled back into a high arching ponytail with the trailing ends tucked into their collar. Their green eyes met Avara’s, their mouth already twisting a smile tinted with amusement.

“Valen.” The half elf greeted dryly.

“Avara.” The newcomer responded, equally as neutral.

Linzi’s legs kicked under the table as she watched the interaction intently. “You know him then?”

“Of course.” Avara responded, not removing her gaze from half orc. “He’s my brother. … why are you even _here_ , Valen?”

The half orc leaned back, pushing the plate away from him as he did so. “I heard some of what you’ve been through. I came to help.”

There was a tense beat, two. Avara held herself in strict uprightness, taut. “I… do not require your help.”

Linzi’s eyes rapidly flicked between the pair.

“No, you don’t.” Valen agreed, graciously.

“What could _possibly_ have prompted a flippin’ paladin of Erastil to uproot himself, then, if you **know** I don’t need your help?!” Avara demanded, her composure fracturing. By now, Svetlana and the stranger had turned to watch the scene. Their eyes, as well as Linzi’s, were a weight on her back, but she could not reign herself back in at the moment.

Valen drew in a deep breath, less out of a personal need and more out of desire to encourage Avara to do the same. “If you succeed – and I believe you will – you’ll be creating a community in the middle of inhospitable lands. I say that having a paladin of Erastil on your side would be very useful to you.” He shrugged, a noisy affair in armor such as his. “I can’t leave even if you wanted me too; have you looked outside yet? I barely _got_ here. I got all turned around for a few hours this morning as it was.”

Avara slowly deflated with the reminder of the weighty issues at hand – things that were far more important than her sensitive pride. She nodded mutely.

The half orc spread his hands out placatingly. “I’ll follow whatever rules you want to set up, but I’m coming with - I’m prepared for anything.”

Avara sighed heavily, her head tilting backwards in a groan that was wildly immature, especially in comparison to the version of herself that she had been showing her companions for the past few days. “Fine.” She said bluntly. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

“We are?” Linzi piped up. The half elf turned to look at her, then smiled at the ink spot that had managed to find on a home on the bard’s face.

“Yes; I’ve had a dream. Prepare yourself, gather your things, and I’ll get the others. I will tell you everything all at once. And –“ Avara’s eye fluttered shut momentarily as she gathered mental strength. “Tell you about Valen, I suppose.”

Valen, behind Avara, beamed, then scooped up his bundle of supplies from beside him. He leaned over, patting Avara on the back with surprising strength. “You won’t regret this.” He promised.

“I better not.” She responded dryly, squaring her shoulders and ushering her normal composure to its roosting spot within her heart.

A _very_ trying day, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you for making it this far! This is my first multichapter fic (and my first ever fic was posted roughly a week before this chapter) and I am very excited to see how this goes! 
> 
> Alright, so:  
> 1) My current intended recipe for this story is 60% compelling characters, relationships, and dynamics, 20% loosely recounting the plot in a new and entertaining way, and 20% love for Tristian. With tons of original content in every category. I hope this proves to be as interesting to others as it is to me.  
> 2) The various Knowledge / Lore / Skills In General sections in between scenes is intended to function similar to the loading screens in the game itself, a little (typically) little factoid that is loosely related to the scene that just occurred.  
> 3) Tags, ratings, relationships, etc, will all be updated as more chapters are added.  
> 4) Chapters are currently planned to be a weekly thing at the least, but don't hold me to that, I'm working full time and again, am new to this. I don't know what to expect.  
> 5) The titles are from various Hozier songs. First & Fiercest is from Sunlight, this chapter's title is from Movement.  
> 6) Comments and feedback is certainly appreciated. I'm well aware that I'm very new to this, so constructive criticism is welcomed. ^^


	2. Why were you digging? What did you bury?

** CHAPTER TWO **

 

         The fog, when tested by one more foolhardy barbarian, proved to be permeable. So long as one did not dive into the more opaque portions, travel remained a possibility.

         The group trekked down the road that snaked south, following its twists and curves as the limited visibility discouraged leaving the well-trod ground. It did not take an experienced tracker to follow the path that the bandits had taken on their way to the trading post, a trip they would not return from.

         For the first time, Avara wondered what had been done with their bodies. A morbid thought, one tinged with a touch of guilt at not having helped Oleg with the process. She was no more experienced with the subject than a layperson would be, but it was not something that should have been undertaken alone.

         “Harrim.” It would be better to answer a question that had been buzzing within her, rather than continue that morbid line of thought. “Why were you at the Aldoris? As far as I am aware, you have no ambition of being baron.”

         “No.” He agreed, stout fingers tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “But … this is a land of endings. Where better to spend what time I have, wallowing in this husk of a world? Where else could I witness such… consistent decay?” The cleric nodded firmly, a gesture more to indicate his own agreement with his words than to convey anything to those around him. “If you are to end, I will witness it and perhaps die with you. And if, you beat these insurmountable odds and survive… then I will be witness to those you end. In either case, inevitability will be served.”

         The half elf blinked slowly – out of all her current companions, Harrim was the one she was most uncertain of how to approach. She was beginning to question why she had thought it a good idea to turn to a cleric of the end times to evade morbid thoughts. After a few moments’ effort, she gave up attempting a verbal response, and instead nodded.

         Harrim did not seemed bothered by this lackluster reply, as he continued trudging down the road with the others and did not pursue the topic further.

         Hours passed, punctuated by light attempts at conversation, mainly initiated by Linzi or Avara. At times, a few foolhardy predators charged out of the fog, snarled at the group, and then swiftly changed their dinner plans as they realized the numbers they faced. Once this revelation dawned on them, they dashed away once more.

         As the sun began its descent across the sky, starting to duck behind the filter of the fog, bushes rattled off the side of the road. The group halted but did not deign to ready their weapons – save for Amiri, who was delighted by any reason to whip her sword out – as they assumed this encounter would be more of the ‘hapless predator’ variety.

         Instead of a thylacines or some other animalistic threat, however, a man emerged from the foliage. At first, he did not seem to notice the group as he continued to mutter away to himself, fingers moving sporadically as they tugged at his clothes, his beard, at the empty air around him. He was ill kept – perhaps a man without a dwelling to call his own, or perhaps he was simply too addled to make use of the amenities involved. He had certainly seen a good deal of sun, in any case, if the wrinkles of his skin proved to be from light’s damage instead of aging.

         Avara held a hand level at her side, ready to summon an ally should this man prove to be a danger – though she thought that an unlikely possibility - and saw her companions shift into positions more befitting combat readiness. Valen, for his part, subtly shifted himself to be partially in front of Amiri, blocking her from simply charging forward without a command.

         The man finally noticed the collection of them and straightened himself slowly, as if his hunched, bent posture were a habit he had not broken in years. “Strange, huh?” He began, his voice resembling a croak. “This fog, obscuring sun and moon, surrounding us, invisible.”

         “It’s not _invisible_.” Amiri said derisively. “It’s RIGHT THERE.” She swept a hand to indicate the fog all around. “You just came out of it!” The barbarian twisted around to meet Avara’s eyes. “I don’t like him.” She spit dismissively on the ground. “He’s got the look of someone who can use the evil eye. - Let’s move on. Or, even better, _fight him_.”

         “We’re not going to fight a man we just met, Amiri, especially when he has done nothing threatening yet.” Avara said with calmness she did not entirely feel. Her gaze flicked back to the man in question. “Who are you?”

         “Me?” He questioned, and then barked out a laugh. “Remus. Won’t help you, though, against this fog.”

         “Then what _can_ you tell me of this fog?”

         Remus’ eyes shift rapidly, focusing more on points on the scenery then on the people before him. “It trips up the feet more than it blinds the eye.” His teeth clacked together harshly at the end of the sentence.

         “Anything else?” Avara asked, struggling to push down her rising impatience.

         “No. Except that you shouldn’t keep wasting time. Your rival certainly isn’t.” His fingers finally went still as his gaze locked onto the Inquisitor. “This fog isn’t hindering him, not when his path doesn’t align with yours. He’s looking for power. - He’ll find it. …Go south. There’s an ancient tomb. He’ll be there.” Apparently having fulfilled his quota of strange but ultimately benign mumbling, Remus turned away, unconcerned by the collection of armed people that now were faced with his back. He resumed his muttering, trudging back off of the road, to be consumed by the fog once more. “Once stolen, reclaimed. Once reclaimed, the reclaimer will be bound eternally. Bound to the land, claiming its ties, its pain, its misery, its… death.”

         A long moment passed, until the remainder was certain that the man had truly left. Weapons were put away with varying degrees of reluctance.

         Avara sighed, an increasingly common occurrence. “… depending on how far south this tomb is, it might be on the way to the bandit’s camp.”

         Valen frowned. “Wait, we’re going to trust that man at his word? Aren’t we already following a dream? Isn’t that unreliable enough?”

         The Inquisitor raised her face to the sky, drawing in a deep breath. _Desna, give me strength._

         Her brother plunged onwards. “I understand that dreams are part of the Desna … thing, but did that dream even come from her?”

         _I will certainly need it_. Avara concluded. She snapped her head back down to look at Valen, fighting to keep her cool. “Even if it did not come from her, she still _allowed_ it to occur. Do you truly believe that she would not monitor her own realm? My meeting with the Guardian was divinely _sanctioned_ , even if it was not divinely _created_.”

         “Yeah, yeah.” Amiri said, slotting herself into the discussion. “The dream’s real, it got the fog right, we’ve got that. But what about _him_?” She hooked a thumb behind her, indicated the area where Remus had left. “He didn’t even say the snake’s _name_ , he could have been fibbing about the whole thing!”

         “He…” Linzi interjected nervously, fingers sliding along the spine of her book as it lay within her bag. “He didn’t exactly tell us anything _new_. And then there was all that nonsense about _death_! And misery! What was **_that_** about?!”

         Now obviously outnumbered, Avara took a moment, pushing issues of her own wounded pride and anxiety surrounding her authority being questioned – by her own brother, no less – aside, leaving room for the facts, for reasonableness, for some measure of a show of leadership. “… Perhaps a compromise, then.” She poised, striving for diplomacy. “Firstly though, Harrim? How do you feel about this?”

         “Where we go does not matter to me.” He hummed. “Here, there, where we are has no impact on our ends.”

         That was. Less than encouraging. Avara fought back another sigh. “In any case, the three of you obviously do not trust Remus. And I cannot completely blame you. - What I propose is this: we have to head south anyway; the bandit’s camp is southwest. All I ask is that we first head completely south, and then cut westward to the camp. In that way, if the tomb and Tartuccio _are_ a reality, we come across them. If not, we will only have lost maybe half a day’s travel.”

         Valen was the first to nod his agreement, thank the gods. The others followed suit, drawing a breath of relief out of Avara.

         With that plan cemented, the group continued on their way, now adjusting their travels to veer mainly south.

         Roughly twenty minutes into their resumed journey, Avara settled a light hand on her brother’s arm. “Will you fall back a few yards with me?” She requested.

         He scanned the others, then nodded, slowing his walk in order for the rest of the group to move ahead of the pair, now mostly out of earshot.

         Avara’s hand fell away and she continued walking in silence for a few steps. “… you _cannot_ keep undermining my authority.” She said, eventually, as neutrally as she could manage with an acidic mix of anxiety and anger gnawing within her.

         Valen pulled up short, turning to look at the half elf with an inquisitive, confused expression. “… do you take questioning your judgment and biases as _undermining_?” He asked, carefully maintain the neutrality in his words and tone.

         She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes straying away from his. She could face a horde of assassins that had already cornered an experienced Swordlord, repel a wave of bandits, but confronting her brother required a different type of strength. “This is… a fragile time, for me.” She admitted. “I – I am on the verge of something **very** important to me, to this land. I can’t deal with the presence of someone who has never understood me, right now. Especially if that someone is drawing support away from me, when I need it most.”

         “I am here to _provide_ that support.” Valen replied, a wisp of frustration entering his voice. “And I am _trying_ to understand, but it’s difficult. - I don’t know if I will _ever_ fully understand what in the world drives you to leave home so often, to risk yourself continually, to –“ He waved a hand, a gesture that could easily be construed as flippant. “Be so fickle, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling.” It was his turn to sigh. “… My support won’t take the form of me mindlessly agreeing with you. That would be just plain **stupid** of you to expect, as a leader or a friend. That certainly _won’t_ be something you’ll get as a baroness, so I-“ His halted, allowing his voice time to soften, trying to pose this as gently as he could manage. “- I suggest you begin to get used to being questioned now.”

         The Inquisitor’s crossed arms pulled in closer to her chest. Her back arched, causing her to lean away from her brother, as if his words alone were threatening physical harm. She slowly straightened as the silence between them grew. “…perhaps.” She conceded, still unable to meet his gaze. “I … might need to get better about this. _Perhaps_. But still. I would … appreciate it, if you, made an effort to support me and… minimize questioning me in front of the others. At the very least until I have earned their trust and respect.”

         Valen looked surprised, as if he had been struck. “You-“ He sputtered for a moment, unable to locate the words. “You already have, Avara.”

         “If you are attempting to be patronizing or –“ She began, steel hardening her speech.

         “No, really, you _have_. They decided to follow _you_ , not this – Tartuccio fellow. They followed _you_ on this dream quest, of all things, and, look-“ He jerked his head towards the others.

         Avara turned to look at them, and found that they had stopped as well, though still a respectful distance away. Amiri looked bored, using her pinkie nail to dig some remnant of a meal out from between her teeth. Harrim had settled on a rock, gaze locked on the middle distance as his lips moved, soundless from their position. Linzi, however, was watching Avara and Valen’s argument with concern, an expression that morphed into a supportive smile and a wave as her eyes met the half elf’s.

         “They respect you. **You’re** the leader, and simple questions won’t change that, not in their minds.” Valen concluded.

         A faint smile crept onto Avara’s lips as she returned Linzi’s wave. “… they _are_ following me through magical-fog-infested lands on the behalf of a fey only I am capable of seeing.” She conceded. “I… have a lot of growing to do, to be worthy of that.”

         “You’ll get there.” Her brother said warmly, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder, slowly rotating her to face south once more. “Lead the way, baroness.”

\---

Knowledge Religion [ Succeeded ]: Erastil is the god of community, family, and hunting. Followers of his are most often located in agricultural societies, as the first communities were formed when people were anchored in one place by their food source. The Stolen Lands are an example of one such society, leading to the veneration of the Stag God above all others.

\---

         Avara, to even her own surprise, turned out to be correct in her decision to trust Remus. Early the next morning, the group came across signs of ruins, barely visible through the milky white fog. When approached, the mist had parted and allowed them to access the tomb.

         Within, matters had grown chaotic quickly; Tartuccio had seen fit to hire outside help, though that did not halt his complaints about Valerie declaring her intent to join Avara’s group, rather than stay with a man who had proven ungrateful for her assistance.

         The gnome and Jaethal had escaped, leaving their mercenaries to hold off the newly bolstered alliance. Once ousted, none of the hands for hire, nor the tomb itself, had yielded any answers as to Tartuccio’s desires. All that could be known for certain was that those goals did _not_ align with the disruption of the bandit force within the Stolen Lands.

         Chasing after him proved nearly as fruitless, resulting only in a general idea of where he could be: somewhere around the vicinity of an Old Sycamore located even further south.

But with such a broad area of land to cover – and another mission already dangling over their heads - the original plan was resumed. They had to seek out the bandit camp and press them for information, before the very flora and fauna of this land, as well as the dryad responsible, suffocated beneath of the fog.

         As such, the group began marching again - now eastward and with one additional member. The newcomer wasted no time in making her opinion know, likely a relief after days of traveling with a leader who thought the opinions of others to be as bothersome as the buzzing of gnats.

“Your armor seems to be of good stock.” Valerie said approvingly, once the rhythm of travel had been set. She shifted her walking pattern to veer closer to the group’s paladin. “But more routine maintenance is in order.”

         Valen, the recipient of the remark, shrugged. “Making it shiny doesn’t help it protect me any better. I clean it if it gets too muddy, or if I have to conduct some ceremony for my town, but other than that, I would rather spend my off time resting instead of doing vain maintenance.”

         “So you acknowledge that a display of proper maintenance is necessary for public events, but are we not in public now?” The fighter waved a hand to the surrounding woods, which undermined her point to some degree. “Why not put your best foot forward?”

         Avara tuned out the conversation as its length stretched into being measured by hours rather than minutes. It continued on as the group began to break camp earlier than usual, as they had drawn close to the area where the bandits were suspected of being. It had decided that it would be better to face the unnumbered foe fully rested and prepared, rather than push through and confront them today.

         The half elf settled down to sleep while the rest of her companions scurried about, tending to their assigned responsibilities. While it appeared to be laziness in the moment, she had to sleep while she could, for she would be standing guard for the majority of the night – an unenviable task, but one she felt she was most suited for.

         With a deep breath and some spare clothes muffling her reception of her brother’s continued debate, Avara drifted off into sleep.

\---

Knowledge World [ Succeeded ]: A local landmark referred to as the Old Sycamore, towers high enough for its topmost branches to be eclipsed by clouds. No one is quite sure how old the ancient tree truly is, but the local settlements, such as kobolds, mites, or certain tribes of lizardfolk, all mark the tree’s presence in even their most ancient stories.

\---

         Once more, Avara dreamed.

         And once more, she could not breathe.

         More accurately, she _could_ breathe, if she happened to be some aquatic being. However, being a simple half elf, she found her first inhalation of water to be quite unpleasant.

         She was a capable swimmer, enough to maneuver through the slow moving streams around her childhood home, but she was untrained in conquering the roaring rapids she found herself in. The water pummeled her, sending her form tumbling through the seemingly bottomless river. Time became measured by the moment, as the passing of each was accompanied by an increasingly desperate need to **breathe**.

         When Avara began to fear that too many moments had slipped past without release, a hand clasped her forearm, artic cold even in comparison to the chill of the water. There was strength in that hand, enough to tug her against the current’s raging flow. _No thorns_. Avara realized distantly as she was dragged. A faint sense of surprise filled her, seeping into her increasingly heavy body.

         There was no warning as the arm attached to the hand on her tensed and yanked upwards, launching her in an arch, out of the water and onto an eroded riverbank. She thudded down, the force of the impact causing water to splutter out of her mouth and bruises to cover her form.

         Avara laid stunned for a moment, only able to focus on the processing of pain and breathing (and _gods_ , did she hope this was not becoming a trend).

         This delay allowed her new savior the time needed to trudge forward. At first, the only indications of their presence were their overcast shadow and the sound of dripping water as they planted themself in the shallows of the river. Avara forced her heavy, waterlogged body to prop herself up on her elbows, sparking new pain.

         The being, supported by a spear, was, for lack of better words, a walking corpse. They gave a faint grunt as Avara took in their decaying form: the pockets of missing flesh, places where skin sagged, where bones were visible. Their hands - the hand that had _touched_ her, she realized with revulsion - were covered with scabs, scabs that oozed out water and drops of heavily congealed blood.

         Her insides heaved, the only warning before she turned her head and vomited up a stomachful of water. Jaethal had been infinitely more appealing an undead – she had no signs of whatever had killed her, as well as no decay. With this individual, however, it was far too easy to imagine every stage of the process that turned their newly dead body into the shambling waterlogged corpse that stood before her.

         A hand touched the back of her neck, causing her to flinch violently and turn, looking for the source. There was nothing, even as the hand continued to constrain her, like a mother corralling her kitten by holding their scruff. The touch leaked cold into her, sent dribbles of water down beneath the collar of her armor. Her breath faltered as surges of thin lined lightning crashed through her system, originating from the hand. The electricity pulsed in time with the words that pooled in her mind. “There you are…” In spite of her current vulnerable position, the tone of the words was not menacing. Instead, it was filled with … approval? Grim satisfaction?

         She coughed, struggling to find her voice, and the touch moved with her shaking body. “Who-“ She cleared her throat, willing her voice into an acceptably high pitch. “Who are you?” Avara kept her eyes on the walking corpse, unable to work out what else could be responsible.

         “Davik.” The voice said, a croon in her head. The hand’s longest finger moved in a small, circular shape, pressing against a pulse point in her neck. “Davik Nettle.”

         Once more, the lightning streaked through her, now a vessel for a series of images - memories, if she had to guess. There was a brief glimpse of a man, human, alive, holding the same spear as the corpse. He stood contently in front of a recently built house as a handful of dogs play wrestled with each other alongside the abode. Then another view, of the same man, constructing a bridge across a ravine, hammering a signpost into a ground that notified travelers of the fare required if they utilized the bridge.

         Avara’s vision cleared as these images faded away, leaving behind thin streaks of someone else’s satisfaction, of a job well done. Now prompted, she looked around the setting she found herself in. The Inquisitor herself was still on the riverbank; Davik stood with the shallow water. On either side of them, tall rock formations stretched upwards as the river surged past the pair and into a ravine. She squinted, leaning forward and sitting up properly as she peered further downstream. On either side of the canyon, the tattered remains of a bridge lay, as decayed and deformed as the undead before her. “… what happened?” She asked hoarsely.

         Images flooded her, more forcefully than the previous ones. Warmth rained down on her skin – the sun’s glory was in full display on this day. The man, Davik, was perched in a chair in front of his house, rocking lazily as he watched three men approach across the bridge. He pushed himself to his feet as they neared and then meandered over in order to collect the toll.

         Most locals were already aware of the cost of using this bridge and willingly complied. He assumed this would be more of the same, even if one of the travelers was strangely clad in a helmet that seemed to be made from a stag’s skull.

         But rather than receiving the money he was owed, Davik was met with harsh words and drawn weapons. He retreated, aware that he was not an exceptional fighter, and so was no match for three fighters on his own. The travelers laughed triumphantly, assuming that they had successfully intimidated him into allowing them to pass freely.

         Their laughter swiftly turned into calls of surprise as dogs charged them, tripping them up and keeping them from threatening their owner. Davik, now reinforced, had drawn his spear and waded into the fight. He used the extended reach of his weapon in order to wound the travelers while they were forced to contend with the dogs, as their weapons were mainly intended to fight someone directly beside them.

         The helmed one, though, pulled out an impressive longbow, but at this range attempting to hit Davik was an additional hardship even for him, as his every attempt to pull the bowstring back was matched with a dive of the spear’s point into his side.

         But the battle did not remain in Davik’s favor for long. Once badly wounded, first one, then two of the dogs fled back to the safety of the house. One of the travelers took off after them, a lit torch suddenly in their hand. With the barrier broken, the remaining companion lunged forward. At close range, Davik’s spear was far less effective; he was soon pushed back onto the bridge.

         From that position, he was able to see his home beginning to be overcome by flames. His dogs, wild with fear, sprinted away into the nearby wilderness

         Unable to do anything else, he turned and fled across the bridge, spear still clutched in one hand. He hoped to be able to escape, start another life elsewhere.

         But a single arrow flew true and pierced his shoulder, forcing his flight to falter. From behind him, nearly drowned out by the frightened yelps of dogs and the roar of flames, there was a chopping noise, and then another as the planks beneath his feet began to shudder. Davik lurched, attempting to grasp one of the supportive ropes, but it fell away out of his reach.

         A dreadful certainty lodged itself in his breast as he turned to face the source of the noise.

         At the end of the bridge stood the helmed one, bow stashed along his back. Instead, he had taken a sword from one of his companions and now held it aloft, positioned to cut the remaining support rope on the downswing. His eyes locked with his victims, and a smile began to form as he allowed gravity to act upon his arm.

         Davik only had time to scream out a despairing yell before the rope snapped, sending both him and his livelihood crashing into the ravine below.

         Avara swallowed thickly as she returned to herself, the afterimages of the memories difficult to blink away. Resolve hardened within her, driving away the lingering coldness of a secondhand death. “… what do you need?”

         “Stag Lord…” The voice oozed into her mind. “… dead.” The feeling of hot, sticky blood covered her arms, quickly turned rancid in the imagined heat of day.

         “Of course.” She breathed out, shallow in her efforts to not inhale the nauseating smell.

         At once, the sensation of blood faded away, as did the freezing hand on the back of her neck. The corpse in front of her nodded, keeping fierce eye contact with Avara as the river rose up to consume him.

         The dream ended abruptly, jolting the half elf back to her body. It remained thoroughly bruised and exhausted – the pain of the experience had followed her into the waking world. She lifted a careful, trembling hand to rub at her shoulder, which burned with the piercing pain of an arrow that was not present.

         The Inquisitor allowed her arm to drop heavily back to the ground, peeling weighty eyelids back to gaze blearily at the star filled sky above. There would be no further attempts at receiving rest. It was time for her shift at guarding the camp. Already, she could hear Harrim shuffling closer to rouse her.

         And once her companions awoke, she would face the absolute _joy_ of informing them of a second strange dream she had received from a supernatural force, and then convince them that it was **not** a sign of her mental health failing.

_Godsdammit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This chapter came a lot earlier than I expected, since I don't work weekends and so had a lot of time on my hands.  
> 2) Davik's story is slightly different from the game (in the game it's implied that the Stag Lord left and then came back with reinforcements to burn down his house + kill him), but this seemed smoother to portray (same with not making Avara + co. trek the complete opposite direction to head to Shrike River and learn all of this in person. Simpler to tell her in a dream. Also the PC's dreams being invaded is a surprising trend in the early game, huh.)  
> 3) I'm trying to hurry through the first arc as quickly as I can while still hitting the main points. I know it's the portion of the game people are probably most familiar with, plus it's pretty plot heavy and constrained versus the later arcs where you have a ton more time to do what you want.  
> 4) Chapter title from Like Real People Do by Hozier.  
> 5) As always, comments and feedback are loved!! Thanks!


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